


Stardust

by mythopathic



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythopathic/pseuds/mythopathic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact that Clint Barton works at the bar Darcy Lewis frequents is not a coincidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stardust

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle XIII. It's meant to precede the Avengers movie. Will probably be jossed (oh snap) come May but it's porn!

The cover of her book reads Gods of the Ancient Northmen. Well he's not one to miss a shot and he pretty much seized an entire fucking bar in order to trick a 22 year old student from Seattle into breaking a confidentiality contract.  
  
He takes in the long lashes behind rimmed glasses, the heavy fall of brown hair, the pouty lips, the full full curves and the one foot hugging the other calf as she leans on the counter.  
  
"You a student at Columbia?"  
  
"Yeah, poli sci." She points to the book. "This is not part of the curriculum though I am just uhhh reading up on stuff. I am considering a new minor." She takes a breath. "Two months ago I finished my TA program with a professor of astrophysics. I like to try different things, you know? She was awesome," she finishes with a bitter smile.  
  
"Is it any good?"  
  
"You came over to get my order and I just told you my entire college experience didn't I?"  
  
"I don't mind," Clint shrugs barely hiding a smile.  
  
She looks worriedly around before deciding. "I would like a glass of whiskey, please!"  
  
"Really?"  
  
She narrows her eyes at him and bangs a something on the counter. "Here's my driver's licence. Don't even try to refuse me my drink."  
  
"Okay, okay." Clint pours her a shot of the scotch whiskey he has seen the Colonel drink in the thank fucking god rare occasion he is feeling shaky. Not that he’d ever tell him that.  
  
Darcy Lewis looks sceptically at the glass in front of her. "Whiskey with coke and ice, please."  
  
"Too late." He drops in a single ice cube. "Enjoy your drink, ma'am," he says and she is pouting.  
  
"It is way too obsessed with fitting the gods into archetypes to see the truth anyway."  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't catch that?"  
  
"The book," she mumbles. "Nevermind."  
  
She goes back to reading and Clint goes back to bartending. His training only incorporated mixing drinks two weeks ago. He is itching to shoot at something.  
  
  
She comes in the bar steadily twice a week. He restocks on tofu burgers for her and keeps the one booth with a socket for her 'Mac' available though she says it's quieter at the bar.  
  
"The professor I talked to you about, remember? We still talk over Skype which I taught her by the way. She built an alpha ray radar thing connected via satellite to three major telescopes around the globe with the kitchen mixer and I got to teach her basic internet communication. I was totally freaked out when she moved us to New Mexico."  
  
His recorder catches the words 'New' and 'Mexico' and starts transmitting the conversation back to the Division. This is it. The kid is breaking. The job is done.  
  
"She's pretty cool. Really. You should see her dancing to Muse. It turns out she likes star related songs.” (Or not.) “I downloaded a whole bunch of them and made a work playlist for my iPod.”  
  
She is tougher than he thought. "No one can stop us now," Clint murmurs tunelessly. Darcy's eyes light up.  
  
"Yes! Yes! ‘Cause we are all made of stars! You should have seen her high and dancing to this Moby guy who understands geek culture. We had some pretty good times."  
  
He laughs, mostly at himself, wondering who's listening in to this conversation. "Jesus! I was listening to Moby while you were still in knee highs and school tie and wondering when you'd hit puberty." He can feel their age difference very acutely.  
  
He narrows her green cat's eyes at him again and wets her lips. He watches as they part with an audible pop.  
  
"I bet you would like to see me in knee highs and a short school skirt."  
  
"Listening to American Idol albums I have no doubt."  
  
"How do you know I went to private school anyway?"  
  
The Division was thorough. School records, dental records, bank statements going back since her parents started saving for private school, even flu shots.  
  
"You are a brat. It's obvious."  
  
"Fuck you. I went to public school for my sophomore year and onwards."  
  
"That was brave of you."  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
"You're gonna order something or should I kick you out?"  
  
"I'll have a Sea Breeze." She knows how he feels about sugar in alcohol. She sticks out her tongue at him.  
  
  
  
Coulson has a sense of humor.  
  
Clint stares at his cell phone screen trying to make sense of the message. His decoding skills come up with, "Shake 53 kiwis." No, this doesn't make any sense. Coulson is definitely retaliating for the spitball smiley face on the back of his Armani.  
  
Darcy's looking over his shoulder. "Whatcha doing?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Who is D. Breef? I have never heard of this band."  
  
When she spells it out it hits him.  
  
"It's an iTunes code."  
  
Clint looks at the 12-digit code again. Coulson would. "That jerk."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"I don't have an account,” he says with a hint of pleading.  
  
She cackles theatrically and spends the next half hour teaching him the basics. She hums to a Led Zeppelin cover (“The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands.” The recorder will definitely pick this up) and her leg rubs up on him while she taps to the rhythm. Eventually Clint agrees to learn to apps which his Android operated phone supports anyway but mostly because he’s not feeling like moving away from her heat and her scent. He takes away her lukewarm Mai Tai and picks a new malt for her and for the first time they stay long after closing hours. Darcy takes whiskey straight now.  
  
  
  
Coulson completed his mission and took his subject in New York. It will not be long before Clint will have to follow but for the moment his orders haven’t changed. Darcy only vaguely mentions Puento Antiguo and what happened there. And then there’s her new minor which he believes helps her vent.  
  
He looks at her tapping away on her iPhone frowning in concentration. He will be able to honestly write in that report that in his opinion Darcy Lewis is not a threat to national security.  
  
  
  
Oh hell no.  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s like bowling but you are flinging birds at things!”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I t is so fun you will not believe.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, Darcy. There’s a dartboard right there.”  
  
“But look at them! They’re angry and cute at the same time.”  
  
“I’ve pushed a computer key to shoot at something before. This is not the time. I’ll teach you to shoot with something you can hold in your hand. You can pretend the dart’s a bird if you want.”  
  
“Oh really?” she says and he can swear she is smirking at him. “And you will teach me,” she challenges.  
  
He missed something. What did he miss? He takes the challenge. “Yeah.”  
  
“And next time we are playing tennis on Wii, deal?”  
  
Clint pulls her six feet from the dartboard of the panelled wall. He aligns her back to his front -- she is soft and supple everywhere -- positions her legs in front of his, pushes her torso to twist just so -- and her hair slides from her shoulder to expose her ear and the column of her throat -- and her arm to bend and expand with his.  
  
“You want to put your back and shoulder into it. You’re a novice so the harder you throw the dart the likelier it is to go straight long enough to hit the target. Or else it will just follow a parabolic trajectory. Later with some practice you can learn to use that to your advantage.  
  
“Parabolic?!”  
  
“High school physics,” he explains. And the Division’s written examinations. “I am positive it’s still fresh in your mind.”  
  
She swats at his arm. “Shouldn’t I just aim?”  
  
“That too. And keep your elbow down.”  
  
All three of her darts hit the slices below the bull in a total score of 39. "Not bad."  
  
"Your turn," she says.  
  
If he missed on purpose would it be too conspicuous? Clint has not lied to her so far. He has told her he was from Iowa, told her that his parents are dead and that he has not spoken to his brother in years. Where are all the doubts coming from? He is a fucking marksman of S.H.I.E.L.D.  
  
All three darts hit the bull before he even thinks about it.  
  
"Did I tell you I used to hustle people in darts?"  
  
It takes a moment for him to realise Darcy is not listening. It takes another moment before he feels the shock of her fingers on his hip where his t-shirt rode up over the waist of his jeans.  
  
Suddenly he is panicking. He struggles to remember if she said something from the red list that would have triggered the surveillance. He comes out blank. They were talking about the fucking birds it doesn't count. Then he realises there are people around sitting, drinking, watching a hockey game, people he served and promptly forgot because of her.  
  
Her palm has travelled upwards and the tips of her fingers are thrumming on his ribcage.  
  
"Darcy," he says because he really has to say something.  
  
She's flushed or blushing or both but her pout is on resolute mode.  
  
"You can tell me no if I'm pushing the boundaries of our friendship, Clint, but just so you know I would really like to break them.”  
  
A single grain of sand can stop the wheels of history, she told him the other day when she was lecturing loudly over her Tequila Sunrise on the virulence of human stupidity in internet communities. He leans closer to see if she’ll jerk away but she stays firm and the distance to her mouth is getting shorter. This grain of sand will pass quietly by those wheels he knows – he hopes – and he takes her hand and pulls her in the kitchen and in a corner next to the phone and the packs of napkins. Out of sight.  
  
Clint lets his eyes roam over her body which he hasn’t done purposefully in awhile.  
  
“Well it has been fifteen years since I have been with a twenty-one year old."  
  
"Twenty-two, you old lech. Now may I please have a kiss and or a peek at your torso?"  
  
It's the smart mouthing. "Fine," he says and moves in. Her mouth meets him half way and sucks him in. Her breasts and hips yield against his body and he grabs onto her waist for better purchase. She breaks away first. His shirt goes with her.  
  
She laughs. “I didn’t think it would work!”  
  
"Impressive," he says against her lips and because it is becoming unfair her cardigan is next to go, and the glasses that he keeps bumping on. He spends a lot of time on her lips, tasting, sucking and tries very hard to keep his hands firmly on her back and never past the safety of her midriff. Slow as not to scare her while she's exploring. Her hands go for his buckle fingers flicking down along his hipbones below the waist of his low-riding jeans.  
  
Her entire body shakes with laughter.  
  
"Are you freaking kidding me?" she says while he's looking at her, jeans around his ankles and --why? -- he was just starting to stroke over the cotton of her bra.  
  
"You are muscle all over! I feel really fortunate to be so naturally cushioned."  
  
He drags her over him and pins her against the wall hard, thighs split around him.  
  
"You mean like that?"  
  
"Yeah," she nods.  
  
The heel of his palm strokes over the crotch of her slacks and she’s clutching at his neck and grinding back rubbing on his stiff dick.  
  
“You mean like that?”  
  
She swallows a moan in response. “Uh huh.”  
  
He drops her. Her heavy breasts fill his palms and when he pulls at the bra he has to taste, leaning he licks and nips from the breastbone, over creamy pliable goose pimply flesh, to flushed pink hardened nipples. He moves downwards taking her slacks with him, sneakers off. He hesitates at the panties, brushing his knuckles lightly over the fabric and the labia underneath, warm and her wetness threatening to soak through.  
  
"You mean like that?"  
  
"Clint," she hisses, "It's not enough!"  
  
He slips two fingers inside her and watches her bite her hand to stop from screaming. A box of napkins falls to the floor and he looks around worried, fingers working. No one comes through the door and thank fucking god because she's so wet and tight.  
  
Darcy hands slam on his shoulders nails and all and he lets her push him back on his haunches. She straddles him his cock is inside her palm and she strokes. He stops breathing while she circles the tip and,  
  
"Condom," she says.  
  
Fuckfuckfuckfuck she's still stroking and his balls are a coiled spring but somehow he finds the back pocket from the mess of his jeans and the wallet and the condom. Rip, fit, and she slips him inside.  
  
He lets her move because it’s all he can do not to come first. One hand holds onto her ass and the other rubs her clit. Her heel found its way between his cheeks.  
  
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he says mouth pressed against her shoulder. It’s over he’s gone and just about then the first clench of her walls squeezes around him and he’s coming eyes squeezed shut. Her gasps are so loud in his ears he wonders why no one has heard.  
  
  
  
“Someplace with a bed next time?” he texts the next morning.  
  
“My room has a mirror,” comes the reply but Darcy doesn’t show up that day, or the next. Stark headlines the CNN app and Coulson’s twitter which is updated compulsively during Justified is silent.  
  
He hates missing things and he hates not knowing and he calls Natasha because she can make him tell her anything. Natasha’s laughter through the receiver lasts a long time and, well, he was waiting for it.  
  
“The truth is,” she tells him between giggles, “I was expecting you to get tased in the balls.”  
  
“I was more subtle than usual.”  
  
“Work with that,” she answers but Clint has already caught motion from the corner of his eyes and Darcy is leaning elbows first on the counter one foot hugging the other calf all glasses and cap and smug smile.  
  
He says, “Gotta go,” and “Hey,” in the same breath.  
  
She’s looking at the bottles behind him as if trying to decide. “Bartender, I would like a mimosa, please.” The smugness breaks into excitement. “Actually a shot whiskey because I am in a hurry.”  
  
“Look at you humouring me and ordering whiskey.” Has he missed something?  
  
“I know!”  
  
“Why are you in a hurry?” It comes out casual. Good.  
  
“I am going away for awhile,” she says and he notices the thick quilted jacket under the backpack she’s shrugged off onto the nearest stool. He pours her the whiskey in a shot glass.  
  
“Back to Seattle?”  
  
“New York.”  
  
Coulson was accompanying Bruce Banner back to New York the last time he heard from him. Natasha was flying Tony Stark from Malibu to the East Coast and Fury was talking down an upset formerly deep frozen super soldier in the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters ten floors beneath New York. Clint’s ears filled with a deafening noise like metal grinding and breaking while Darcy downed her glass barely blinking like he taught her.  
  
“What are you going to be doing in New York?” he says and this time it’s not nearly as casual.  
  
“We are made of stardust, Clint. I want to put mine into good use.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek and leaves. What did he miss? He follows her out in the daylight watches as the six foot two thin Caucasian man, black haired, in a black suit opens the door of a town car for her. She never broke but just like that Clint’s job is done.  
  
He calls the Colonel. “He’s here.”

 

 


End file.
